Winter's End
by chibiMuffin999
Summary: Bucky is lost and confused and doesn't want to be found. Steve is determined to bring him home. Can Bucky readjust to the world? (Spoilers, duh.) Again, not slash, but lots of brotherly love. (T for language. Super Soldiers swear a lot :D) (The prologue is here: /s/10267652/1/Winter-s-End-Prologue and helps set up some themes)
1. Chapter 1

Dim visions of telling stories around a camp-fire somewhere in upstate New York filtered through the Winter Soldier's mind as he rummaged gingerly through a dumpster. He thought it might be his own voice telling about the bears that came down out of the forest, attracted by garbage, to eat unwary campers... but then, everything was so blurry and difficult to make out, that it could have been anyone.

A few hours ago, he'd felt hunger for the first time in … he didn't even know how long. He'd been walking for days when the first pangs struck, and at first he hadn't even recognized them. But his body was insistent and it wasn't long before his head began to ache and he began to stumble again, and he knew he'd have to stop and address this.

Training told him to stay hidden. His arm no longer bothered him - a simple dislocation that he had put back into place himself - but his chest was still tender to the touch. He'd definitely broken something, and that put him in no mood for unnecessary confrontation.

It would certainly be simple enough: smashing a window, crushing a door, and helping himself... but it would risk too much attention. Anyone who saw him would have be eliminated and that would be a lot of trouble. He'd found a dumpster behind a diner instead and helped himself.

* * *

He bit into a half-eaten sandwich, still wrapped and fairly clean. _Pastrami on rye_ his mind supplied, unasked. He wasn't sure how or why he knew, but he was too hungry to care. It was delicious, even stale as hell and smashed by heavier garbage dropped on top. He'd almost forgotten what it was like, eating. As best he could recall, someone had once told him that they supplied his nutrients via tubes when he was in stasis…. true or not, he couldn't remember the last time he'd actually put real food in his mouth. His stomach demanded more, and he ate with gusto.

_A blurry image of another sandwich from another time... pilfering a french-fry... god when had he last had a french-fry? from-_

He recoiled, and what was left of the sandwich dropped from nerveless fingers. He winced and pressed his fists into his temples. _Why wouldn't that blonde bastard just get out of his fucking head?! _He couldn't even _eat_ in peace.

With a sudden scream of animal fury, he slammed his metal fist into the dumpster and it crumpled like paper. A ripple of pain snapped through his damaged ribs in response. He sank to the ground, human arm curled protectively around them, gritting his teeth against another scream. Suddenly nauseous, he bent double and wretched until his stomach was empty again. Anger sang in his blood until he felt dizzy with it.

Someone was coming to investigate the noise._ Running. Only one. No combat training. _It would be an easy kill, even in his current state- but suddenly the bloodied face of the blonde man was in front of his eyes again, and all he could think to do was run until it couldn't keep up anymore. He staggered to his feet and disappeared into the darkness as a flashlight beam skimmed across where he'd been only a moment before.


	2. Chapter 2

There were no more restaurants here. He'd been walking unsteadily, without purpose, for weeks.. _or was it months? he'd stopped keeping track..._ and he had begun to feel weak and dizzy. It bothered him, this weakness, but he steadfastly refused to stop. Whenever he rested, the memories that weren't his would come back. The strange blonde man… _who used to be smaller?_ kept reappearing. He was often hazy and his words indistinct, but the eyes always blazed through, clear and bright.

And the name. _Bucky._

_His Target…Steve... had called him that. Steve Rogers had called him Bucky. Had said it was his name. _

"_Your name is James Buchanan Barnes." _

"_You know me. You've known me your whole life."_

It resonated deeply within him, though he couldn't quite say why. Something told him that this person did not lie. Could not lie. He had no idea why, but he trusted the truth of Steven Rogers and could not find it in himself to question that.

_James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. _

It had a sort of rhythm to it. Without his noticing, it became the cadence that he marched to.

* * *

He stumbled and it forced him to rest a moment, breathing hard, with his back pressed against a tree. He was annoyed to find himself shaking and tried to will himself to stop. The trembling refused to subside.

_When had he last eaten?_

About a month ago, if he remembered right. A deer had made the fatal mistake of wandering too close, and that had fed him for a while. Unfortunately, the last of the meat had run out and he had yet to find any more game. Injured and exhausted, he couldn't catch enough small prey to be worth the trouble, and he'd seen nothing larger in days.

Stubbornly he had pressed on anyway, unwilling to backtrack. To go back would mean facing the ghosts and faces that drove him onward. He wasn't prepared for that. Not yet.

But now, here he stood, chest heaving as his ribs throbbed mutinously and his vision swam. He could no longer ignore the effects of walking for days at a time without food or sleep. Super-Soldier or not, surviving on plants and insects simply wasn't cutting it.

He pushed lank, dirty hair out of his eyes and allowed himself to tip his head back into the solidity of the tree for just a moment. Just one moment of weakness before he would rally himself for another mile...

It was a mistake. A wave of dizziness rolled over him and the world tilted abruptly on its axis. He stumbled as his knees buckled and his eyes rolled up in his head. The last thing he was aware of was hitting the ground with a hard thump, then darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

"He was here."

"What was your first clue?"

Sam Wilson looked the dumpster over with dismay. _That son of a bitch is still lethal_.

He liked the idea of Steve finding this guy less and less the more he knew about him.

"Question is, where did he go?" Steve Rogers stooped down to inspect a partly eaten nub of old sandwich on the ground, next to a dried up puddle of sick. He was only partly listening. He read the half-crushed dumpster as a sign that James "Bucky" Barnes was still in there, somewhere. The Winter Soldier was losing ground. If he was punching dumpsters instead of people - and he'd had the opportunity - there was hope.

"Did you not notice this guy about punched a _HOLE_ in solid steel?"

"Yeah, but no casualties. He could've killed me on that helicarrier, but I'm still here. Why?"

"You got lucky. You barely made it."

"He's still in there. Whatever they did to him, he's still _Bucky_." He stood up, studying the terrain that surrounded the diner. "Besides, the only reason HYDRA got their hands on him in the first place is because _I_ screwed up. I led that mission. He was my responsibility, and more than that, he was my friend. I should've gotten to him faster and I sure as hell should've gone down after and looked for him."

"Cap, there's no way you could've known any of this was gonna happen..."

"Sam, I lost my best friend to HYDRA twice during that war. I thought he was dead both times, and now I get one more chance to save him. I have to take that chance, because I won't get another one. I'm can't lose Bucky again. I got through to him up there and I can do it again."

Sam understood well enough the bond of brothers in arms. He remembered Riley and the hole that loss had left in him for years after. He couldn't honestly say that he'd react any differently if their roles were reversed.

He let the subject drop as the owner of the former dumpster came back; this time leading a nervous looking, heavy-set maintenance man.

"This is Tim Owens. He was working on our deep-fryer the other night, when the incident occurred. Tell 'em what you told me, Tim."

"You… you're Captain America!"

"It's just Steve, these days. Steve Rogers." He put out his hand for the man to shake, but the maintenance man only stared at him, looking more nervous than ever. He put the hand in his back pocket instead, as casually as he could manage. "Can you tell me what happened that night, please?"

"Oh, uh, sure thing Cap- I mean, Mr. Rogers…. sir. And- I… well, You're gonna get 'em, right? Fella that did this? Going around smashing things up in the middle of the night, scarin' me half to death. I honestly thought I was gonna die for a minute!" Tim added dramatically. He'd clearly been rehearsing this portion of his retelling.

Steve took a deep breath, trying to school the pained expression from his face. He ran a hand over the fresh scar under his shirt reflexively.

"Something like that. I don't think he wanted to kill you or you'd be dead."

The man paled. Apparently he didn't realize how close to death he'd actually been.

"Right… I- I was working on the fryer, like Mr. Carlson said. Grease-trap was all gunked up and stuck, and I almost had it loose when 'BAM' I hear this commotion outside, like somebody crashed a car into the wall or something. So I come running out and all I see is some fella running off into the trees and the dumpster all smashed to hell. So I called the police and -"

"Which way were they running?"

"Sorry?"

"Which way did this fella run off?"

"Uh… well north, I guess." He pointed "That way, best I could tell, but it was dark." Steve stared off distractedly, following the line of the man's arm. "If not for the dumpster, I'dda thought it was just some drunk."

"Did you get a look at their face?"

"No, sorry. Like I said, it was dark. I just saw some long-haired hippy type take off into the trees."

"Right… Thank you. ….And, uh... sorry about your dumpster."


	4. Chapter 4

"Something wrong?" Sam asked as they picked their way through the trees. The smell of rotten meat was getting stronger. "Besides the obvious."

"The guy acts like Bucky tried to kill him because he punched a _dumpster_." Steve seethed, frustrated and guilty. "You saw what he can do, if he wanted to hurt somebody…"

Sam sighed and picked his words carefully.

"Cap, your friend has killed at least 30 people. _At least._ That we know of. The guy almost killed _you_. You can't blame people for being scared. I mean...it's damned lucky he _didn't_ kill anybody back there."

"That _wasn't _Bucky!" Steve exploded. They stared at each other for a few moments. His anger faded as quickly as it had appeared. He picked up the pace. "That… was the Winter Soldier. … Bucky would never do this. He'd never do any of those things."

"Steve… Look... you're the only one who's sure your buddy is still in there. Maybe he is, maybe he's not, but whoever he is now, he's dangerous. "

Steve didn't answer. They walked in awkward silence.

"He used to take care of me whenever I got beat up as a kid, did you know that?" Steve remarked suddenly. "Every time some jerk would start in on me, Bucky would always turn up and pull 'em off… He hated bullies."

He breathed a humorless laugh. "I used to worship him when we were kids. Bucky Barnes was my hero. He was everything I was never gonna be, but he was always looking out for me. He took me to parties, introduced me to girls. Picked me up when I got my ass handed to me, which was about every week. Never quit trying. I didn't know what I'd ever do without him." He pulled out his compass and gauged the angle of the track. _More to the west._

"Bucky enlisting was the first time he went someplace I couldn't follow. Suddenly he was Sgt. Barnes… and me, I was just the asthmatic shrimp in cheap hand-me-downs, that nobody wanted around.

He's why I wanted to join the army so bad to begin with. I had no right to sit around New York while he was out there serving his country, getting shot at. He's why there's a Captain America at all." He glanced sidelong at Sam. "Bucky was always the big brother I never had, and I've already lost him twice... I just can't do it again."

Sam sighed. He wasn't sure he could find the right words, but he had to say something.

"...Cap, I get what you're saying. He's your wingman. He's your Riley. ...But whoever he used to be, that's not the guy you're chasing down right now. There's 70 years and a whole pile of shit in between. This guy might hug you or he might shoot you. There's no way to know until we find him. I trust you to know what you're doing and that's why I'm here. But if I have to kick his ass to save yours, that's exactly what I'm gonna do."

Steve grunted acknowledgement. He wasn't sure if he should be grateful or frustrated.

He glanced down at the trail they followed, something about it bothering him. It shouldn't be this easy to track down the Winter Soldier, or they would have found him months ago. Something was wrong.


	5. Chapter 5

"How old you think this is?" Steve poked at the slightly putrefied deer carcass with a mossy branch, lifting one bone haunch and peering at the stripped ribs underneath. It had been clumsily butchered some time ago, hunks of half-rotted meat still clinging in places.

"Old enough to be disgusting."

"I'm serious."

"I have no idea."

"From the smell, there's no way it's fresh."

"I'm gonna just take your word for it."

He let the limb drop.

"Let's keep moving."

* * *

Steve squatted beside a tree, studying fresh and erratic tracks on the ground. A mile or so ago the cursory effort to hide them had been abandoned altogether. Sam was taking a closer look at some berry bushes to their left that had been recently ransacked.

"I think he's nearby."

"I think you're right. That why you look worried?"

"No…" Steve chewed his lip, "He's been moving slower. See how one boot seems to be dragging? And the tracks are a lot clearer than they should be. He's not even trying to cover his trail. Something's wrong with him."

"Then let's hurry up and find him, huh?" Sam volunteered, though he would rather do just about anything else. He was nothing if not a loyal friend, but he could think of plenty of things he'd rather be doing right now than facing off against a cornered, injured, killing machine that really didn't want to be caught.

"Yeah…" Steve stood up, distracted, wiping damp soil off onto his jeans. "I think we'd better."


	6. Chapter 6

_Footsteps. Two sets. Approaching cautiously. _

Training and instinct jolted him from the empty darkness. His eyes flickered open, but they were unfocused and bleary. He could make out two blurred shapes but they shifted and wavered before his eyes. _Useless. _He sensed more than heard them over the roaring in his ears.

_Have to escape. Can't let them-_

He tried feebly to crawl to his feet, and failed when his knees refused to support his weight. He collapsed painfully back to the hard ground with a _whuff_ as the air slammed out of his lungs, biting back a scream when the impact jarred his still-injured ribs.

The voice was back. It was closer now. It was immediate and present and it was touching him.

"Bucky?... Buck... Can you hear me?" A hand very gingerly touched his shoulder and he recoiled weakly from it.

"Be careful, Cap." a new voice sounded from a few feet away. "He could still mess you up."

The Soldier took a clumsy swing at the new voice. He succeeded in making it leap back, but his arm barely cleared the ground. He groaned miserably, furious with himself. This was pathetic.

"Bucky, I'm here to help you, buddy. I'm gonna take care of you." The voice had dropped to its knees beside him.

The last time someone had found him this way, disoriented and helpless, he'd been turned into… something else. Whatever he'd been before had been taken from him. He panicked.

"F-fuck off…." he rasped, trying to move away from the voice. The effort sent fire coursing through his injured chest and he curled into a ball, trying to hold himself together; eyes squeezed shut, matted hair clinging to his sweat-soaked skin.

"Buck, I've got you. It's Steve. I've got you. You're going to be ok." Through the haze, he thought he heard familiar concern in the voice. He dismissed the idea. No one was concerned about the Soldier. He was just an asset. A weapon.

Someone was very gently lifting his head and he hissed in pain as a hand cautiously touched his side_._ The hand withdrew immediately.

He wanted to struggle, but his body was spent and no longer accepted his orders. He found himself lying limp and helpless instead, taking fast, shallow breaths, with his filthy, mangy head laying in someone's lap. The someone drew out a phone and started talking rapidly. _Steve._ His mind supplied helpfully. The call ended with a soft electronic _beep_.

"It's gonna be ok, Buck." Someone…. the blonde man - _Steve_ -was very gingerly hoisting him up, bracing all of his weight against them, and something about the whole thing felt incredibly familiar. In spite of himself, he clung to them, metal arm draped heavily across their shoulders, feet dragging uselessly through the dirt. He snarled weakly when someone tried to brace his other shoulder. The other someone backed off.

He couldn't quite lift his head, but he felt the need to say it. His voice was rusty with disuse, but the managed to get the words out.

"Just… like…. old times..." The startled jolt that ran through the body supporting him convinced him that these words had been right. He swayed and felt himself falling away into the darkness again.


	7. Chapter 7

Faces floated over him as he opened dazed and unfocused eyes. Some were familiar, some not. A flash of white coat caught his eye and instinct took over.

_The scientists. They wanted to erase him again. He wouldn't let them. _

He tried to catch one by the throat, but they managed to dodge out of the way with a terrified yelp.

_Too weak. Too slow_.

He struggled to sit, to escape. Wires attached to his skin held him back, but he yanked them free. He was only just beginning to remember. They would not take that from him again. They would 'wipe' him, and it would all be gone

When someone pushed him firmly back down to the table he screamed and thrashed wildly. _Not again. Not again._

He felt the sting of a needle hastily injecting what could only be a sedative and the matching sting of frustrated, angry tears building as he slowly succumbed, his movements growing sluggish and weak. _Not fair. Not fair. Not again._

* * *

Steve stared down at Bucky's slackened face, as the drug took effect. When he was sure it had done its work, he backed away, releasing his grip on the Winter Soldier's shoulders. His chest ached, and his stomach felt hollow. That fear, pain, and rage… it had no place on his best friend's face. And knowing he could do nothing but watch and wait…

He stood back to let security attach restraints to the table before the doctors would agree to resume work. They were justifiably terrified to get too close.


	8. Chapter 8

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" Natasha Romanoff materialized at his elbow out of the crowd of doctors and nurses, the now empty syringe still in her hand. She tossed it into a sharps bin, deadly accurate, as usual.

"No. But it doesn't matter."

"Yeah. That's what I thought you'd say."

"Yeah..." He swallowed, trying to force back the building frustration and grief that wanted to push its way out of him. Not the time, nor the place. They moved back out of the way as a new IV stand was wheeled in to replace the sharply bent one that Bucky had managed to snag in his escape attempt. Steve's eyes never left the metal arm still visible under the thick of lab coats and medical equipment.

"He almost killed you, Rogers. ...And Nick. Hell, he tried to kill me _twice_."

"Yeah… Yeah, I know. But that wasn't_ him_." He scruffed a hand over his face in frustration. "That's something they forced on him. I think he's starting to remember who he was, now. Whatever they did, it's wearing off."

"You _know_ what they did, Steve, you _saw_ his file! That process isn't reversible." She interposed herself between them, crossing her arms, forcing him to look at her. "Look... The people we care about get used against us way, way too often in this business. That's why it's a bad idea to get too close to anybody. You don't get attached... because it's dangerous." She sighed, reading him like a book, as usual, "But it's too late for that, isn't it... He's your friend, so you're gonna do whatever you have to do."

"Right."

"Ok, but even if you _can_ get him back, how do you plan to explain to him that he murdered at least 30 people, not to mention god knows how many collateral-damage casualties?"

"I don't know."

"From experience, Steve… That doesn't go away. It _never _goes away." She looked up at him, her mask slipping for the briefest moment. He looked back at the dull gleam of metal across the room. She was right, of course, but it just didn't matter.

"Look... I don't know. All I know is that he's still in there, and I have to help him. We'll figure the rest out as we go."

"... Right, well you'd better figure it out quick…. and keep an eye on him. If nobody else tries to put him out of his misery, with everything he's got on his rap-sheet, he might just do it himself."

She turned on her heel and left with one last pitying glance toward the crush of doctors and the assassin they were still very cautiously working on.


	9. Chapter 9

_Everything hurts._ Hazy green eyes fluttered. _Where am I?_

Dim memories of falling... lying facedown in mossy dirt and being carried filtered back to him. He'd been fighting, something went wrong… he couldn't quite remember what. How long had he been out this time? _Hours? Days? ...Years?_

_Steve. The blonde man's name was Steve. _Steve had carried him, just like he had during the war, behind enemy lines.

_The war... _

_What war? _

_THE war. _

_The enemy. Howling Commandos. HYDRA. Steve. ...Brothers. _It all swirled together in his head.

He brought his hand up to touch the tight gauze bandages around his chest and froze.A dull gleam of metal reflected his gaunt face back to him. He hadn't seen his own face in so long, it was startling to see the changes.

"Nnngh..." His head exploded with pain. There was too much to process and it was overwhelming to try to understand it all. He struggled up, feeling the pull of wires and sensors taped to his flesh as he stumbled down from the hospital bed he'd been lying in, ripping them away. Sensors and monitors beeped in furious protest. His side still ached steadily, but he ignored it. _Manageable._

_He had to get out. Had to be anywhere but here._ Someone was coming, many someones, sprinting down the hall. He'd lost time, and he knew what that usually meant. They were going to wipe him again. Maybe they already had…

_Too many to fight unarmed. They would overtake him._ He wasn't about to lose himself again. Not now. He was too close to getting it all back. He was out the shattered window and gone before the door opened.


	10. Chapter 10

It was surprisingly easy to steal the clothing he needed. Store security was all but ignorable after 70 years practice, dodging state-of-the-art government surveillance. Cover up the arm and he was practically invisible. He even took the time to select a baseball cap.

He'd noticed signs for a "Captain America Special Exhibition" at the Smithsonian littering every pole and bulletin board in the area, and eased his way into the crowds flowing through the museum, unnoticed.

He had expected only to learn more about this Steve Rogers person, but now he found himself surrounded by things that felt incredibly familiar but distant. It was like visiting a place you've heard about all your life.

The name… _his name?_ was everywhere. _Bucky Barnes._

He took advantage of the press of the crowd to covertly touch the hem of the dark blue jacket on the mannequin display. It was entirely too familiar, but it wasn't the original. He knew that the moment he touched it. The original was blood-stained and half the sleeve was gone.

_A trail of blood in clean white snow._

He turned a corner and a video reel caught his eye. He stared. His own face looked back at him. The hair was shorter and the face was fuller, but there was no mistaking his own reflection. He was...laughing. Laughing and smiling. … With Steve. It took him a moment to realize that the video was black and white footage from decades ago. His mind had automatically filled in the colors it remembered for him.

He looked back at the jacket and his eyes scanned up to the mural on the wall. His face again. There beside Captain America. The other faces were familiar too. They had been friends. Brothers. His missing life was here. It was all around him. He drew the baseball cap down over his eyes and moved on.

There was an entire wall, it turned out, conveniently devoted to the memory of Bucky Barnes: closest friend of Captain America. He read it hungrily. Then read it again, and again.

It had all been true, then; what the blonde man had told him. All of it. This man had been his closest friend. He hadn't even known he had friends….

"Steve…" _What had he done?_

* * *

"I thought you might show up here."

He froze, still standing fixated in front of his own obituary. Steve Rogers was just over his shoulder.

"This is who I was…" He answered cautiously, not turning around.

"It's who you still are, Buck."

"I'm not so sure."

"Come back with me. We'll get you through this together. … It'll be just like when we were kids."

He turned to find the blonde man smiling at him. He didn't return the smile, but he didn't refuse either. He needed to know.

"Who am I, Steve?"

"You're my best friend."


	11. Chapter 11

Bucky sat quietly on the edge of the hospital bed again, uneasily allowing himself to be examined.

"You'll make it, soldier." The nurse smiled at him, gathering up her equipment. He looked blankly through her. "Just, no more climbing out windows for a while." She glanced at Steve who stood beside Bucky, one hand on his shoulder in silent support.

"No ma'am. I'll keep him out of trouble."

"Considering the kind of trouble that guy gets into... I'd say you'd sure as hell better."

* * *

"How many people?" Bucky's face voice was flat. He hadn't moved, but his eyes locked firmly onto Steve's.

"Don't think about it-"

"How many?"

Steve hesitated. There was no use dancing around it. It would come out sooner or later.

"A couple dozen confirmed." He answered reluctantly.

"Confirmed…" Bucky repeated vaguely. "There were more."

"Bucky…"

"They ordered me to kill you." His expression still hadn't changed. Steve couldn't tell if it was shell-shock or just a leftover of the mental programming.

"I know. But you didn't."

"I tried to. I wanted to." Bucky's eyes were unfocused, looking at something only he could see. "I knew you. I wasn't sure how, but I knew you, and I still -" His voice faltered and he pulled his knees up to his chest, coiling tightly into himself.

"They made you fight me, but they couldn't make you kill me. You're stronger than they ever were."

He felt Bucky's shoulder trembling under his hand. The enormity of it all was finally hitting home. He sat down on the bed and put a reassuring arm around his friend.

"I almost killed my best friend…"

"Buck…"

"I beat you almost to death and you were just going to let me?"

"I lost you too many times already. I couldn't do it again. If that's what it took to get you back, that's what I was going to do."

Bucky sat silently, staring at the floor for a few moments.

"... You always were too dumb to run away from a fight, weren't you?"

Steve smiled slightly at that, in spite of himself. _This was the Bucky Barnes he knew._

"You saved my life. I know you did. Nobody else could've pulled me out."

"I had to." Bucky looked up at him like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"You could'a let me drown, but you didn't."

"No…" Bucky's eyes dropped to the metal arm, still tightly banding his knees, as if he was seeing it for the first time. "I couldn't have."


	12. Chapter 12

Bucky set down the manila folder he'd been given a few hours ago, running a hand tiredly over his face. The same face stared up at him from a cryo-tube in the faded old photograph he held. He hadn't wanted to know the details of what they'd done to him, but he'd needed to. Bits and pieces had come back to him as he read.

"Guess they liked to keep me nice and fresh for later." He threw the photograph down with a sigh. "Whenever they were done with me, I went back in the freezer. If I ever acted up, they'd wipe me, then back in the freezer. Like a fuckin' popsicle."

"I take it you don't want any ice-cream later then, huh?" Steve handed him a cup of coffee, taking a seat across from him.

Bucky just stared at him in silence.

"It was a joke, Buck."

"Right."


	13. Chapter 13

The nightmares had begun almost immediately when Bucky returned, but they were only getting worse.

When sedatives failed to calm the screaming, Steve moved Bucky into his apartment where he could be close by. When the neighbors complained about the noise, he found a new place. Former SHIELD dormitories. It was a bit bleak and barracks-like, but soundproofed and reasonably comfortable.

Still, the nightmares continued. Even as Bucky's strength came back and his face lost its gaunt, unhealthy look, his mind remained fractured. Most nights, he would bolt upright in his bed, screaming, eyes wide, staring at something only he could see.

Sometimes just shaking him awake and breaking the dream's hold would be enough. Bucky would shiver with terror he refused to give name to and they would sit up for hours talking, until the adrenaline faded and he could lie down again. Steve got into the habit of telling him stories from their childhood. The ones nobody else remembered.

On what Steve had started to call 'the bad nights', Bucky would hallucinate and have to be restrained before he hurt himself or someone else. Steve started pretending to get into intensive sparring matches with The Hulk after 'the bad nights'. He needed to explain his injuries, when Bucky would finally snap out of it and ask what had happened. Bucky hated himself enough as it was.

The worst nights though, oddly, were the ones when Bucky was quiet.

Sometimes he would lay there for hours, near comatose, just staring emptily at nothing. He had passed entire nights this way, occasionally shuddering, and mouthing silent streams of incoherent muttering. He didn't even appear to notice when Steve tried to talk to him.

It was almost a relief sometimes, on these nights, when Bucky would abruptly snap upright from the delirium with an agonized scream, as if he were being electrocuted. His eyes would dart around the room like a hunted animal until he found Steve's face across the room in the darkness. It hurt to watch, but at least then it was Bucky; and not this empty shell that wore his best friend's face.

Nothing seemed to be helping.


	14. Chapter 14

"I don't know what to do for him… I thought by now I knew how to save people, but… he's right there in front of me and I can't help him." Steve sat dejectedly stabbing at a bowl of what was probably instant oatmeal, appetite forgotten. A clump of it slithered over the edge of the bowl and landed with a heavy _glop_ on the tabletop. The diner's tables hadn't looked particularly clean to begin with, but he tossed a napkin over it out of polite reflex.

"Don't know what you expected." Tony commented, upending a small flask into his mug and taking an experimental sip. He coughed and pounded his chest, looking satisfied.

"Shut the hell up, Stark." Black Widow shoved him, not particularly playfully, a slice of toast in her other hand.

"Just saying, Red, that's the kind of shit that stays with you." He eyed her over the rim of the mug. "How would you feel if you woke up one morning and found out you killed a couple dozen people?"

"Gee, I_ dunno_. That's just _so_ outside my experience, Tony. How would I feel about that…?" She flicked her eyes pointedly in Steve's direction, then back, with an expression that clearly promised a slow and painful death if this line of conversation was not dropped.

"It's ok…" Steve was nothing if not observant. "He's right. It's not going away. It's just getting worse, if anything. I guess I thought if Bucky just remembered who he is, that he'd be ok. But... he's not."

"You knew this wasn't going to be easy. And you're doing everything you can."

"I feel like I should be doing something that I'm not. I don't know what... But-" His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pushed the bowl of oatmeal away, as he slipped it out and checked the number. Tony reached over and helped himself to the bowl.

"Hey Sam, did you want to meet us for- ...Oh, thanks. I didn't know you were coming over or I'd have waited for you. How's he doing? … No…. I don't think that door even has a lock. ... No- ...Did he answer you? It might not be a big deal, but - … I'm on my way."


	15. Chapter 15

They had to break the bedroom door down, as Bucky had barricaded it from the inside. Somehow he'd managed to shatter one of the ceiling lights that ran the length of the room. He sat in the middle of the bedroom floor, staring vacantly and surrounded by shattered glass. Blood trailed down his bare chest in thick streams where he'd tried to dig the implanted arm out of his flesh with a large jagged shard. He hadn't succeeded but he'd sliced his torso and fingers raw in the attempt.

"I can't get rid of it! It won't come off!"

"Bucky, what the hell are you doing?!" Steve sprinted to him, gingerly snatching the glass out of his hands and flinging it away.

"I can't get this damned thing off of me!" Bucky clawed frantically at the metal shoulder, trying to pull it out with his fingers. Steve gently grabbed his arms and held him back as best he could while Bucky thrashed wildly, trying to get at the offending limb. It was a little like wrestling with a very squirmy tank.

"Buck, come one, stay with me buddy-"

"This thing is part of _HIM_. I don't want it! It's soaked with blood, Steve… Soaked with blood..." His eyes were glazed and darting. He was hallucinating again….

"Bucky, please-" _Don't do this again. Don't go where I can't follow you._

"Nap time, big guy." This time it was Sam who mercifully appeared with a syringe.

Bucky slumped over with a shiver as the strong sedative took him over, eyes rolling back in his head. He was still muttering incoherently as Steve lifted him in a fireman's carry and set him, limp and unresponsive, back into bed. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take.

Bucky had seemed fine this morning, calmly reading one of the books Steve 'had to' read to catch up to the new century when he left. And now… this.

Natasha and Sam quietly went to find a broom and the apartment's extensive first aid kit. Steve sat beside the bed, face in his hands, and tried to calm down.

"It could be worse."

Tony stood in the doorway when he looked up.

"How could it be worse?"

"Next time, he might not stop at the arm."

"That's real comforting, thanks Tony."

"Kid, I room with Banner. I know 'danger to myself and others' when I see it."


	16. Chapter 16

Bucky was back in Germany.

He walked, dazed, through the snow, trying to find his unit. A grenade had taken out those nearest him. He'd been hit by the shock-wave, and his ears were still ringing, but he was alive, which is more than he could say for most of the men he'd arrived with. He came up short, finding the barrel of a gun in his face. Someone was shouting at him in German. Two more Nazi soldiers appeared behind him, rifles leveled at his head. He raised his hands reluctantly in surrender.

* * *

He swaggered and talked as the guards led him away, acting as if he were on his way to a party. Possibly because of his smart mouth and possibly just because he was unlucky, he'd been singled out from the other prisoners and led out through the yard, guns trained on his head. No one they'd taken had ever come back. He knew he was walking to his death. He wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of seeing him sweat, though.

He thought of Steve. Skinny, defenseless Steve. God he hoped that dumb kid was ok. He'd have to be, because it looked like they'd never see each other again. It was too much to hope the kid would take a desk job and stay out of trouble, but he fervently hoped it anyway.

* * *

"What is your commanding officer's name?" The short fat man with round glasses spoke English through a thick German accent. Bucky wasn't impressed.

"Uncle Sam"

He reeled as a heavy gloved hand slapped him across the face. The short man shook his head.

"Age?"

"Fuck off."

Another blow across his face. He spat out a bit of blood, but his defiant smirk didn't fade.

"You do not take orders well, do you? Typical of an American." The short man turned to the guards and spoke rapid German. Bucky was hauled up out of the hard wooden chair, his hands cuffed roughly behind his back. "Congratulations, you have just volunteered to aid the war effort."

"Aww, gee, I'd love to help, but I'm all booked up already. Maybe next war."

A rifle-butt connected sharply with the back of his skull and everything went dark.

* * *

When he came to, he was strapped to a table with a very unpleasant looking array of equipment pointed at him. A host of syringes and surgical equipment was laid out on a small cart to his left. The short man was pulling on a pair of rubber gloves.

"You just… don't take no…. for an answer, do ya?" He managed around the pounding in his head. _Cheap shot, hitting me from behind, ya bastards._

"I don't have to." The short man informed him disinterestedly. A man in a black uniform and full face-mask stood beside him with a notebook, pen at the ready. The short man approached the table with a watery but disquieting smile. "For your benefit, Herr Barnes, I will dictate the procedure in English. I would hate for you to miss out on this important scientific journey."

"Procedure? What am I getting my tonsils out?"

"Perhaps in time."

Bucky glanced at the surgical equipment and his bravado wavered. _Maybe being executed would have been better…._

* * *

His voice was hoarse from screaming. He didn't know what they had done to him, but it hurt. It hurt like nothing he'd ever felt. Every fiber of his being was on fire. The fat man with the glasses had tried to ask him some questions, and he didn't trust himself to answer, so he started to recite his name, rank, and serial number, over and over. It kept his mind busy and drowned out the whimpering he'd rather be doing.

He didn't remember very much, but he remembered the injections that burned like acid in his veins. The electricity they shot through his body until he blacked out. He was losing himself and the worst part was, he didn't know if he could remember how to care that it was happening.

* * *

"_Bucky? Oh my god …"_

A new voice cut through the haze of _name, rank, serial number_. He hadn't even realized that the pain had stopped until now. His eyes slowly tracked to the blurry face above him. The restraints were gone, but no one had told him to move. It didn't occur to him to try.

"Who…Who's'ere?" he mumbled.

"It's me… It's Steve."

"Steve…?" It took a moment to remember who that was. "Steve." He smiled dimly as strong arms helped him up. … _What was Steve doing here?_

There was no mistaking the earnest, worried face in front of him, though he'd remembered it being a whole lot lower the last time he'd seen it.

Steve gently touched his filthy hair as if making sure Bucky was really there.

"I thought you were dead."

"... I thought you were smaller."

"C'mon."

Steve's surprisingly sturdy arm bracing him, they'd staggered out the door together. His own legs were doing little to support him.

"What happened to you?"

"I joined the army!"

They stumbled into the hallway and he managed to find his feet. Steve was restless ahead of him… and huge.

"...What really happened?"

Steve told him.

"... Did it hurt?"

"A little."

"Is it permanent?"

"So far…"

* * *

The train. He always ended up here. Blown out the side of a train car by an explosion that would have killed him instantly, had he not been protected by Captain America's shield. Steve climbed out after him, but there was nothing he could do. They reached for each other desperately as the bar he clung to gave way and he plummeted into the valley below.

He saw Steve break as he fell. He could hear it in the way the other man screamed after him.

He tried to grab onto a rock outcropping as he passed -anything to slow the fall - but he was moving too fast. The force snapped his arm like a twig and he bounced off of the rock, screaming in pain as his flesh shredded against the stone. It was several long minutes before he finally struck hard, icy rock at the bottom with a sickening crack and mercifully blacked out.

* * *

Alive… He was alive. It wasn't possible. He couldn't move and he was fairly sure his left forearm was entirely gone. A glance at the trail of fresh blood in the snow confirmed that. Someone had a hold of the back of his jacket, dragging him through the snow. For a moment he thought it was Captain America, come to the rescue one more time. But then a harsh stream of Russian floated down to him and he knew he was in even deeper shit than ever.

As he was flung into the back of a truck, only one thing penetrated the haze in his mind.

_Fuck, I hope Steve can find me this time. _

_Kid's probably coming unhinged..._


	17. Chapter 17

Bucky woke up in pain. His skin stung and pulled when he breathed. He felt more like himself, though… or at least his best approximation of himself… than he had in a long time.

What the hell had happened to him? He tried to separate the dreams from his present reality. His right side burned when he shifted. He could feel tight bandages around his shoulder, chest, and hand. His fingers stung viciously when he tried to move them.

He didn't remember falling asleep, but he'd woken up alone. … No, that wasn't right...Not alone. The Winter Soldier had been there. He was always there. Reflecting in that dim gleam of the unwanted metal arm, staring out at him, covered in blood. Who's blood... he didn't want to know. He didn't really remember what he'd done to be rid of the reflected ghost, but it must've been bad…

Steve wouldn't look him in the eye anymore, and he wouldn't leave the room either.

"Hey pal... you ok?" He lifted his head and winced.

"Oh… yeah. I'm fine… How are you feeling?"

"Shitty, actually. Kinda feel like my arm got ripped off… again."

Steve stared at him, cautiously. It was the longest he'd seen the familiar old Bucky mannerisms come through since he'd lost Bucky on that train. He was almost afraid to say anything and break the spell, for fear they'd fade away and be lost again.

"Yeah... well that's because it just about did."

"Ah…" Bucky laid back again, trying to get comfortable. It wasn't really working. "What'd I do this time?"

"You tried to cut your artificial arm out." Steve informed him bluntly, instantly regretting it. Stress was making him harsh.

"Oh." Bucky mentally reconstructed the scene. _Eeesh…_

"Steve… I'm sorry. Look, this isn't fair to you. I'm fucked up, sure, but it's not your fault. You don't have to feel responsible for my… well, whatever the hell this is. This isn't like when we were kids. Pulling jerks off of you in an alley and taking on HYDRA's bullshit are kind of on different levels."

"No... they're not." Steve pulled up a chair beside the bed. "Buck, you were always right there with me, no matter what happened. First it was bullies, then it was Nazis, then it was HYDRA. No matter what, you _always_ had my back. You need me right now, Bucky. And I'm staying right here with you."

"Said it before, I'll say it again. You always were too dumb to run away from a fight." A faint grin split Bucky's face. In spite of the burning sting that pricked across his skin, he shifted himself up on his uninjured arm.

Steve snorted, tension breaking. "Look who's talking!"

"Hey, at least I could usually take the guys trying to kick my ass! I didn't make a career out of getting it handed to me in the parking lot."

"I was building up my technique."

"Oh is that what you're calling it now?"

"Smart-ass."

"Nancy-boy."

"Yeah, well, you just wait until you're all better, then we'll see who's the Nancy-boy."

"Oh... sure, big talk from the guy that wears tights to work." Bucky grinned at him.

A sense of their old ease settled down between them. Steve smiled genuinely for the first time in weeks. He leaned back in his chair.

"You promise not to cut off any body parts if I go get us some coffee?"

"Do my best."

"I swear, you better have all your pieces where they belong when I get back, or I'm drinking yours."


	18. Chapter 18

The last of the bandages had finally come off, and Bucky was beginning to act more like his old self again. He swaggered a bit when he walked. He called Steve 'pal' and 'punk' now and then, with the same affection he'd used when they were kids. He smiled more. He'd even tried to flirt with Natasha, though that had ended in a very awkward stare-down. He'd only tried it once.

Steve wasn't sure what had changed, but as long as Bucky kept getting better, he didn't care why.

* * *

"Hey Tin Man."

"Agent Romanov."

She fell in step with him as they crossed the National Mall. Bucky hadn't really gone outside since his infamous jailbreak, right after Steve had finally caught up with him in the woods outside of DC. He had been afraid that something or someone would set him off, as unstable as he'd been then. Now it was a beautiful spring day and he was ready to try going out into the world again. The sun felt incredible on his skin.

"Where's your baby-sitter?"

"Cute. He said he had a mission or something. I… didn't think it was a real good idea for me to go with him. Not yet, anyways."

"What, you thinking of switching to team Avengers? I hear try-outs are a bitch."

"I'll take my chances. Turns out my old team electrocutes you if you get a bad report-card."

"Yeah, I know. I saw the files before you did."

"About that...Thanks, I guess… for getting all that stuff on me. It's nice to have some idea what the hell happened to you for the last 75 years or so."

She paused, forcing him to turn and face her.

"Alright, level with me, Jiffy Pop, What's up with you lately?"

"Wha- Jiffy Pop? Really?"

"Just answer the question, Barnes. You normally sound like an extra from West-Side Story."

"What the hell is West-Side Story?"

"It's… oh my god, you guys are impossible with this stuff. You sound like you just walked out of a propaganda movie, that's what. You've got this whole Uncle Sam Wants You poster-child thing going. But you're not doing it now. What's with the act? ...You just do it when Cap's around, don't you?"

Bucky sighed and plunked down on a nearby bench, draping himself across the back of it. He seemed to have deflated slightly.

"Look… there's only so much I can remember about who I used to be… I'm trying to get it all back, and I'm remembering bits and pieces every day… but I'm not stupid. Being Mr. Idealist is Steve's job. Some of it's just gone…. I don't even know how many times they wiped me. It's a goddamn miracle I remember Steve at all. Thing is, he wants me to remember it all so bad. He wants everything back to the way it used to be. It means everything to him. How do I not at least try?"

She leaned against the wall behind them, eying him critically.

"He's gonna figure it out eventually. Rogers might be an idealist, but he's not stupid."

Bucky dropped his head and scruffed his hands through his hair, finally trimmed down into the neat and tidy style he was used to.

"I know. But how do you tell somebody that almost died for you that many times that you only sort of kind of remember them? He was my best friend for most of my life, and my clearest memories are just him getting his ass-kicked in an alley. I remember what he looked like when I fell off of that train - that's a fun one."

He looked up at her.

"You wanna know why the act? Half of what I know about me and him is second-hand. I mean, I'm _pretty sure_ it's true, but I don't remember it. Steve's a good guy and a good friend. I don't even have to remember _anything_ to know that. But I don't think I can be the guy he's trying to bring back. Not after everything that happened in between."

"So don't be. Be the guy that came back."

"I can't do that to him."

"Look, don't make me get all mushy, Barnes. Steve loves you. You're his big brother. It doesn't matter if you're not perfect. It matters that you're here. ...And, y'know... not trying to murder him."

He stared at her in silence for a moment, then smiled.

"Thanks. Y'know, I thought you hated me. Why are you being so nice all of a sudden?"

"I don't _hate _you. And I'm not being nice! You shot my boss, so you're not my favorite person- By the way, you ever try that again and I will kick your ass straight back to 1945."

"Aw, you just ruined my weekend plans."

He raised his hands defensively when she glared at him. "Sorry, sorry. Bad joke. Let's pretend I said something witty and you can not kick my ass. That fair?"

She rolled her eyes, but let it go.

"Let's just say I get what it's like to have a past you're not proud of. You seem like you're really trying to get past it. I'm willing to give you a shot if Steve is."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it. And I mean that literally. This conversation never happened."

"...You wanna do another lap with me? I haven't gotten outside in… a really really long time."

"Are you trying to flirt with me again, Jiffy Pop?"

"You kidding me? After the death-glare you gave me when I tried to take you out for coffee? I'd sooner hit on the Hulk!"

"Yeah… Ok, we can do a lap. … Seriously, though, the Hulk?"


	19. Chapter 19

"I really really don't want to have to do this…." Bucky sat on the edge of his bed, leaning on a crooked knee. He'd been sitting there nearly 20 minutes, putting off having to finish getting dressed. A light, puckered network of scars crisscrossed his chest and down his side, where it vanished under the waist of his pants. He ran his hand over them absently, out of nervous habit.

He'd been having nightmares more regularly again, in anticipation of the hearings and investigations that started today. Until recently he'd been doing well. He still woke up panting from screaming, still hated himself some days. But the really bad nights were slowly becoming fewer. Some progress was better than nothing.

"I know, Buck." Steve handed him a button-down uniform shirt without being asked. Bucky accepted it reluctantly, and resumed dressing himself. "But unless you want to get charged with a whole lot of war-crimes, we're gonna have to prove you're not the Winter Soldier."

"I _was_ the Winter Soldier." Bucky reminded him, tucking in his shirt-tails and examining his reflection in the mirror. It was polished aluminum, as Steve justifiably disliked keeping anything glass in their apartment since Bucky's last major incident.

"But you're not anymore. You didn't decide to become a mercenary; you got kidnapped and brainwashed. I'd call that pretty involuntary. You're as much a victim as anybody else." Steve leaned against the door to wait for him. As usual, he'd been ready right on time, and waiting around in uniform since 0800. Bucky had never been the punctual sort.

"Yeah, well, somehow I don't think your vote of confidence isn't really gonna be enough on this one, pal."

"What, you don't think Captain America's word is good enough?"

"I think 'top international assassin of the century' might outweigh your good word a bit, yeah."

* * *

"So, Sgt. Barnes, I should start by telling you that you are accused of some very serious crimes, some of which carry extremely heavy penalties."

"Yes… I understand that, Captain Harris."

"You have been involved in-" She examined her notebook, "a minimum of 30 verifiable deaths in the last 70 years. Is that correct?"

"I… I honestly don't know, ma'am. My memory of everything from my MIA until this past year is pretty much gone.

"So you have amnesia? Is what you're telling me?"

"I guess? What I know for sure is that I was on a mission with Steve. … er.. Captain America. I fell probably 300 feet from a moving train and not too surprisingly, everybody assumed I was dead. I don't know why I'm _not._ I know I got picked up and rebuilt by HYDRA-"

"Yes, we are aware of HYDRA's involvement."

"And they did something to my head, I still don't really understand what, and erased… basically my entire life. I didn't remember anything. They sicced me on people they wanted dead and I did what I was told."

"Mmhmm...Sargeant, your birth-date is listed as…. 1917."

"As stupid as it sounds, they… they froze me when I was inactive. Kept me in the veggie drawer, I guess…"

She made a note of this but didn't comment.

"So you followed orders and assassinated assigned targets. But you no longer identify as 'Winter Soldier'."

"Yes, ma'am."

"What changed, Sargeant?"

"To be completely honest, I don't really remember it first-hand. All I know is Steve- Er… Captain America, snapped me out of it. He got me back in my own head."

"Captain Rogers, any comment?"

"What he said. I've known Buck my entire life and when we met each other again, he had no idea who I was. I got through to him eventually and he started coming back around. He's not the cold-blooded-assassin type, Captain. He fights bullies, he doesn't work for them."

More silent notes.

"And do you feel any remorse, Sgt. Barnes?"

"Every goddamn day." A haggard shadow had fallen over Bucky's face. Steve winced in sympathy.

"Though you still claim not to have had any knowledge of what you were doing at the time?"

She pursed her lips and looked over her glasses at him.

"Look, Captain." Bucky leaned toward her intently. She leaned away. "I wake up every day knowing I killed _at least_ 30 people doing my own personal version of _sleep-walking_. At_** least **_that many. On top of all that, that I was almost forced to kill _my best friend_. I have to live with that. Every. Day. For the rest of my life."

Bucky's hands clenched and unclenched and his throat worked unsteadily. Captain Harris shifted her chair a few inches further away.

"Sgt. Barnes has had a tough year", Steve supplied, setting a hand on Bucky's shoulder in unspoken support. "He's had some bad days, but he's gotten through them. He's not a murderer. He was used against his will and that's all there is to it."

"I understand, Captain, but I do have to be certain to address certain key issues in my investigation of this matter." Captain Harris put her notebook away in a tidy khaki briefcase. "I think I will be able to clear Sergeant Barnes of wrong-doing, in this instance, especially given the extensive files that have been recovered relating to this incident. I will need to see the metal limb however."

Bucky flinched.


	20. Chapter 20

Bucky drew the line at showing off the arm. He wouldn't do it. Steve wasn't about to force him.

Eventually they allowed the captain to photograph the metal hand, flat on the table only, and placated her with file photos of the Winter Soldier's arm in action. She soon left to type up her report, promising to let them know when she had more information.

Bucky looked like he needed a stiff drink. Too bad neither of them could get drunk...

* * *

"I'm sorry." Steve flopped down onto the ugly floral couch that had come with the apartment. _That could've gone better… _

"Not your fault." Bucky dropped down next to him with a bottle of gin and two glasses. He knew he couldn't get drunk, but could damn well try. "I just… I don't like showing it off like it's some great new toy. That thing's killed a lot of people." He filled the glasses and passed one to Steve, who barely glanced at it.

"No I don't mean that. I mean… for all of it. That any of this happened to you."

"Steve-"

"They tortured you and I wasn't there. They ripped you apart so they could rebuild you and I wasn't there. I let you down big time."

Bucky knocked back his glass and refilled it. At least he could pretend it was helping.

"Geeze, you big drama-queen, we're on… what, the third time you saved my life? It's actually a little embarrassing that I keep _needing_ it. You want me to start wearing "Damsel in Distress" on my shirt?"

"I'm serious, Buck…"

_Ah, there it was. The face that said "I have to save the world, even if it kills me." _That face had haunted him for months not so long ago.

"So am I. I should've been dead when the 107th went down, but because of you, I came back alive. When I followed you onto that train, I knew what I was doing. I followed the little guy from Brooklyn and he never steered me wrong."

"He dropped you off a train and down a mountain." Steve deadpanned, setting his glass aside, untouched.

"No, _Zola_ dropped me off a train. What were you gonna do at that point, Steve? Fly? Jump off after me? Yeah, that would've gone great. Then either you'd just be dead or there'd be two brainwashed killer zombies running around instead of just me."

"I should've gone down there and found you before they did. I shouldn't have assumed. If I had-"

"Steve, for god's sake, _listen to yourself_!"

Bucky was on his feet, frustrated, irritated, and protective. _Why was Steve's worst enemy __always__ himself?_

"You were gonna backtrack through a whole mountain valley, 300 feet down, with no way to know where I landed - if there was even enough'a me left to find in the first place - in a warzone, when the entire world was depending on _you_ to stop Schmidt? You'd really give up on everything else, all those people, just to go scrape a Bucky shaped splat off the side of a mountain?"

"If I had, none of this would have happened."

_Steve always had been stubborn._

"No...I know you better than that. When it came down to me or the world, you picked the world, buddy. I was there. I remember. You made the right choice."

"Yeah, well, I'm not very proud of what I had to do to get past you."

"I am." Bucky laughed and ruffled Steve's hair as Steve pushed his hand away. He was determined to force his friend out of these stupid, self-destructive thoughts. "You kicked my ass, kid! I never knew you had that in ya' "

"Yeah, well, me either."

"Steve, look at me. No, I mean it, look at me. Right here." He reached out and swiveled Steve's face to him. He held out the arm between them. It whirred faintly in the silence.

"I hate this thing. I hate everything about it. But if I had to choose between everything that happened to me - every sick thing they made me do… and knowing that my safety stopped you from doing the right thing… I'd walk right back into HYDRA and sign up for another tour."

Steve stared at him.

"You're a good kid, Steve, you always were. You always put everybody ahead of yourself. Don't put me ahead of everybody else. That's not who you are, and if anybody's gonna mess that up for you, I don't want it to be me.

... Oh shit... Are you crying?"

"You're a jerk, Bucky." Steve laughed, even as his eyes filled with tears.

"And you're a punk. C'mere."

Just like when they were kids, he threw his arm around Steve's shoulder and pulled him in for a rough hug. That the arm happened be made of metal, and weigh about 50 pounds now was inconsequential. They were a team again, and that was what mattered.


End file.
